


Just For Today

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Aunt Amy, Gen, Loneliness, Valentine Challenge 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11





	Just For Today

Warning, character death, but not one of the guys, I promise.

For Glennagirl, who asked for a story to fit the sad mood of the George Harrison ballad, _Just For Today_. The song link appears at the end of the story. 

 

_I should have been there._

The door to Waverly's inner sanctum slid shut behind Napoleon Solo, but he hardly noticed. He brushed past a startled Lisa Rogers, jaw clenched, and took off down the long corridor, feeling her eyes follow him. His mind was reeling, and his heart...his heart...

Two weeks ago. She'd passed away two weeks ago, and he hadn't known! True, Aunt Amy had been feeling her age recently, but she'd assured him that it was nothing serious. “A touch of indigestion, dear, that's all.” He'd promised to stop in for dinner when he got back into town. Now it was too late. The affair in South America had dragged on and, as a result, he'd missed the chance to say goodbye to one of the few truly essential people in his life. _Damn this lousy job. Damn it to hell._

“It's the price of what we do,” Waverly had said, not without sympathy. “The indigenous tribesmen you rescued from that THRUSH eugenics lab in the Amazon will be grateful to you for the rest of their lives.”

A small comfort, he supposed. At least she hadn't suffered at the end. A relief to know that.

There had been a wake, and a funeral service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. He'd missed both. Knowing Amy, she'd have specified the particulars in her will – “No flowery eulogies, thank you very much, and definitely NO bagpipes.” Probably something quirky and upbeat – a medley of Belafonte tunes played on the cathedral's Great Organ. 'Daylight come, an' me wanna go Home.'

He sighed.

Footsteps behind him. _Illya, of course._ He signaled for the elevator.

A gentle hand brushed his shoulder. “Napoleon?”

“Not now.” The elevator pinged its arrival, and he stepped inside. He turned, palm raised in a warding gesture, and Illya took an obedient step back.

“I need to get out of here, _tovarisch_ – I'm no good to anyone right now. Waverly's given me compassionate leave. I'm going home to take a shower. It'll give me a chance to – you know, to clear my head. Sort things out –” He was babbling. “Oh, Christ.” He pressed the button for the Garage Level, and watched the doors close on the worried face of his friend.

Traffic was heavy on 42nd  Street as the Chevy Impala inched its way across town. The evening rush hour was underway – it seemed to get worse every year – and the new snow falling on already icy roads didn't help any. His fingers, numb with cold, gripped the steering wheel like a vise. He wished he'd remembered to grab his gloves. He distracted himself with mundane thoughts – what to cook for dinner, what wine to serve, what book to read.

_Amy's gone, and you're wondering what kind of wine to serve?_

Abruptly, he realized that his apartment was the last place he wanted to be. He swerved across two lanes of traffic onto Fifth Avenue, causing several cars to blare their dissatisfaction, and headed for the Upper East Side.

He pulled into a private parking garage across from Central Park, and walked the final block through the ice and slush to the luxury apartment building Aunt Amy had called home. A dusting of snow brushed his cheeks as it fell, melting like tears upon his skin. The doorman nodded respectfully as he held open the vaulted brass door.

It was warmer inside the lobby. Napoleon stripped off his overcoat, and shook the snow off the cuffs of his trousers. There wasn't much he could do about his soaked shoes. He fished around the pockets of the coat for the extra set of keys Amy insisted he keep on hand. “You never know when you might need a bolt hole, dear...”

“Mr. Solo?”

Suleman, the Senegalese security guard, stepped out from behind his desk, extending his hand. “I wondered when I'd see you. Sure was sorry to hear about Miz Solo. She was good people.”

Napoleon managed a nod.

“Always asked about my kids, she did, no matter how busy she was. Knew their names, too.” Suleman sighed. “Really gonna miss that woman."

"Yes. Well, thank you."

"Quite the funeral, they tell me. Mayor Lindsay came, and that Jasper guy, the one who paints the American flags – you know who I mean.”

Napoleon drifted toward the elevator.

“I guess you'll be moving in now?”

He stopped. Turned. “Excuse me?”

“I was wondering when you planned to –” Suleman cocked his head. “You don't know, do you?”

“Know?”

“Miz Solo left the penthouse to you in her will.”

Napoleon was stunned. “She - she never mentioned it.”

“Well, isn't that just like her? Always full of surprises. Thought the world of you, she did."

The fellow seemed to be waiting for a response of some kind, but Napoleon had no energy for conversation. The black man shrugged. “Well, I guess I better get back to work before they fire me. Good to see you, Mr. Solo. Call if you need anything. Anything at all.”

Another elevator, this one paneled in rich, dark mahogany. Napoleon inserted the special key to access the penthouse, and waited while the machine completed its silent journey to the 27th  floor.

The doors opened. He stared out into the darkened apartment, imagining for a moment that the woman he'd adored was not gone, but merely out and about the city she loved – shopping for one of her parties perhaps, or visiting nearby MOMA or the Guggenheim. He imagined the phone ringing, hearing her voice on the other end of the line. The elevator door sliding open; Amy stepping out, toting an armful packages –

 _Stop_.

He felt along the wall for the light switch. A flick, and the Baccarat crystal chandelier above his head blazed with light. He disabled the burglar alarm, had to key in the code twice, his hands were shaking so badly. He turned up the heat, and listened as the radiators began to hiss.

The foyer was as he remembered it – Persian carpets scattered about the parquet floor, the familiar grouping of _chinoiserie_ on the hall table. An early pastel version of Matisse's _Woman In A Purple Coat_ hung on the wall, just as it always had, but its colors seemed more muted than he remembered. A thin layer of dust dulled the surface of the table.

A stack of mail waited, unopened, by the telephone – condolence cards, mostly, and a few bills. He decided that they would keep. With a sigh of resignation, he made his way down the long hallway to the living room. The sound of his footsteps echoed like gunfire in the silence.

The curtains had been left open, exposing the big picture window with its view of Central Park far below. The ice-crusted trees shimmered in the reflected light of the city. The New York City skyline glittered on the horizon.

_How she had loved that view._

He kicked off his shoes, stripped off his wet socks and laid them across the radiator to dry. He padded across the living room in bare feet, and poured himself two fingers of scotch from the crystal decanter on the bar. He sipped, offering up a silent toast _._

 _Bruichladdich Highlands Single Malt_. _You always bought the best, Amy, my girl._

He wandered about the room, picking up things, touching them. Each one held a memory. A Peruvian rainstick from a trip they had taken together to Machu Picchu. A Navaho rug; a conch shell from a coral atoll in the South Pacific. On the mantel was the pinch pot he'd made in Kindergarten, and the porcelain angel he'd given her the Christmas he turned eight. He'd saved his allowance to buy it for her.

Photographs, dozens of them, in a riot of mismatched frames, covered the tables: Amy's parents at an embassy gala in Paris. Amy, looking unbearably young, with her late husband at an _ashram_ in India. Napoleon's sisters, Artemesia and Hippolyta, in grass skirts, learning to hula. Amy with her girlfriends from the _mah jong_ league, riding camels at the Great Pyramid of Giza. There were photos of Napoleon as well: with his parents at his graduation from Yale; home on leave from Korea; with Illya on the Pursang.

The apartment unnerved him with its silence _._ It was like a body without a soul, the pale echo of a place that, mere moments ago, had vibrated with life. It felt as empty and hollow as his heart.

The stereo console stood open, a selection of LPs stacked neatly beside the turntable. He flipped through the titles: Sinatra's _My Way._ Victoria de los Angeles in _Madama Butterfly_. _Fundamentals Of Balinese Tribal Drumming_. Jefferson Airplane's _Surrealistic Pillow._

He flicked on the power, slipped an LP from its jacket and placed it on the turntable. He poured another finger of scotch, and reclaimed his place on the sofa. The sound of Sinatra's mellow baritone filled the room.

_'Let someone start believing in you –'_

Believing. Yes, that always was Amy's gift. Amy believed in people, in their unique potential and their inherent goodness, and she let them know it at every opportunity –

–like the time she'd barged into the kitchen at _Relais de Portiers_ , waving as she waltzed past the stunned line chefs to whisper in the ear of the executive chef. Whatever secret words she'd said to the man that evening had left him crying tears of joy as he stirred the _buerre blanc_ sauce. He'd received a glowing review in the New York Times a month later, and earned his first Michelin star by the end of the year.

She'd had a similar effect on Illya. Napoleon remembered the warmth with which she had welcomed his shy Soviet partner into her home, drawing him into the kitchen to help her make the _varenyky_ for their supper. She'd patiently worked her magic on the man until, little by little, his carefully guarded heart melted in helpless adoration.

Christmas morning, the penthouse overflowing with friends old and new, the dining room table groaning under the weight of all the food. He remembered the look on Illya's face as he opened his first Christmas present. It was a look of unadulterated joy, of a grown man suddenly remembering how to be a child. Amy, it seemed, could accomplish the impossible.

Once, she'd even showed up at Del Floria's, demanding to be allowed to deliver Napoleon's birthday cake – personally! Poor, outmatched Giuseppe DelFloria and his desperate attempts to dissuade her - as though anyone could! Napoleon could still see the stunned expression on Waverly's face as Amy offered him a triumphant slice of Bavarian chocolate cake. He'd been assigned double shifts for a week, penance for his failure to rein in his tenacious aunt.

 _Rein her in? That was rich_. Plenty of people had tried to rein her in over the years, and failed miserably. Anybody who really knew Amy knew better than to try. She lived life outside the box. Outside all the boxes. “Be a Fruit Loop,” she'd laugh. “It's ever so much fun confounding the Cheerios!”

His eyes prickled with tears.

The last song ended. He switched off the stereo, got up and rinsed his glass in the kitchen sink. He reclaimed his shoes and socks, lowered the thermostat in the foyer and paused, drinking in the view of the Park one more time, trying to see it through her eyes. When he could put it off no longer, he dimmed the lights and stepped into the elevator.

Fifth Avenue was deserted when he emerged. It was still snowing, but the wind had died down and the plows were out in full force. Their rumble as they thundered by was comforting after the silence of the apartment.

“Call you a cab, sir?” the doorman inquired.

“No thanks. I'm parked around the corner.” Napoleon turned up the collar of his overcoat and headed in the direction of the parking garage.

A figure stepped out of the shadows.

_Illya._

The Russian stood beneath the awning of an adjacent apartment building, snow crusting the shoulders of the heavy parka he wore. A dusting of flakes had frozen on his eyelashes; his lips were blue with cold.

Napoleon sighed. “How'd you know where to find me?”

A single, tolerant eyebrow arched in reply. Illya reached into the pocket of his parka, and pulled out a pair of gloves. He placed them into Napoleon's hands. “I thought you might need these.” 

Napoleon took the gloves, soft black leather lined with rabbit fur. They had been a Christmas gift from Illya the previous year. He slipped them on, grateful for the warmth. “Thanks. I left so fast, I forgot to grab them.” He paused. “What are you doing, standing out here in the cold? Why didn't you come upstairs?”

A shrug. “You said you needed to be alone.”

Napoleon was abashed. His friend had been standing out in the snow for the past hour, for no other reason than that he'd asked him to. “Oh, Illya. I wanted privacy, but I didn't mean for you to freeze.”

A small smile. “We Russians are accustomed to the cold. And –” He hesitated. “The quiet was good for me.”

The rims of Illya's eyes, he noticed, were red. “You loved her too,” Napoleon remarked softly. 

Illya looked away.

“Look, _tovarisch,_ my car's just around the corner, and it has a great heater. Let's get you warmed up.”

Illya nodded. 

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“Wherever you are going.”

The two men set off down the Avenue, lost in memories of the woman who had touched their lives so profoundly. They turned the corner, walking side by side as the gentle snow continued to fall.

*/*/*/ 

 

YouTube has removed the original clip. Here is another version of George Harrison's lovely, haunting song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYOog1SRft4

  


End file.
